


On the First Day of Christmas…

by mithrel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mysterious gifts keep turning up, all things Dean likes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the First Day of Christmas…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sycophantastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycophantastic/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [В первый день Рождества...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/622528) by [Koryuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koryuu/pseuds/Koryuu)



He doesn’t notice anything too weird in the beginning. He just walks into the motel room on December fourteenth and sees the most glorious slice of cherry pie, steaming and covered with vanilla ice cream.

The shower’s running, so he figures Sam went on a food run and left it for him. Occasionally he can be an awesome brother.

He digs into the pie, and has to close his eyes. He might have made a porn noise, he’s not sure. That’s the best damn pie he’s ever had, and he’s had a lot.

Sam comes out when he’s almost finished.

“Thanks, dude,” Dean says, his mouth full.

Sam’s face goes into Bitchface Number 23: What the Fuck Are You Talking About? “For what?”

“The pie,” Dean says, swallowing the last bite.

“What pie?”

Dean goes cold. It could be cursed or poisoned, and he just chowed down like an idiot. “The cherry pie? It was on the table?” he says without much hope.

Sam shrugs. But Dean’s fine later, so he doesn’t worry about it much.

 **  
Day Two   
**

The next day, when he’s packing up (Sam’s already in the car, the bastard. Dean can go from asleep to awake at a moment’s notice–they both can–but that doesn’t mean he _likes_ it), he finds a supple leather holster. He and Sam don’t usually use holsters except when they’re impersonating government officials; they just stick the guns in their waistbands. But this isn’t like any he’s seen before. It’s too long to go around his waist.

After a few minutes of fiddling he figures out it’s meant to go over his shoulder. He puts it on, and gets out his .45. It fits perfectly. Once he’s slung his jacket over his shirt he can’t tell he’s armed at all.

He’s dubious about it at first, since he doesn’t have practice drawing from a holster like this, but the gun hangs right within reach, and he finds he’s actually able to draw faster than normal, which will definitely come in handy.

Sam stomps up to the door, Bitchface Number 14: What the Hell is Taking You So Long? firmly in place. He blinks as Dean tucks the gun under his jacket. “What the–”

Dean strips it off to show him the holster.

“OK, the pie could have been a fluke, but this? What’s going on, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “Who cares, as long as I get free stuff?”

And there, right on cue, is Bitchface Number 48: This is Serious, Dean. “You’re not weirded out by this?”

“Oh sure, but it seems harmless so far.”

“So far,” Sam repeats darkly.

“Oh c’mon, Sammy! Don’t you think I’d know by now if something’s a threat?”

“Maybe they’re lulling you into a false sense of security,” Sam mutters, but Dean can tell his heart’s not in it.

 **  
Day Two, continued   
**

Dean sits down on the bed to unlace his boots. He really needs new ones–the ones he’s wearing are showing their age: frayed laces, a worn spot at the toe that’s threatening to become a hole any day, a missing eyelet… But with everything else going on he hasn’t had time to replace them, and doesn’t think he will anytime soon.

Hunters need good boots, and he hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

 **  
Day Three   
**

The next morning he leans down to pick up his boots–and blinks. There are boots there, but they aren’t his. They’re not Sam’s either.

He feels under the bed for his boots, but can’t find them. He looks in his bag, even though he’s sure he left them on the floor, in _Sam’s_ bag, under Sam’s bed, in the bathroom…no boots.

He finally finds them in the trash can. He takes them back out, miffed. Sure they may be old, but they’re the only boots he has…

His eyes fall again on the other boots, the new ones. They look like his size…

He tries them on. They _are_ his size, good, sturdy workboots exactly like he likes. When he walks around in them they don’t chafe or blister like new boots do before they’re broken in. In fact, they feel just like his old ones.

When they check out, he leaves his old boots in the trash.

 **  
Day Four   
**

There’s nothing good on the radio, so Dean pulls over and drags out his box of cassettes.

On top is _Led Zeppelin: Greatest Hits,_ which makes sense, since he plays it a lot, but it’s not his tape. His tape is chipped, the label faded. This one looks brand new.

He pops it in the tape player, and the strains of “Black Dog” float out, clearer than he’s ever heard from a tape, or even a CD. Sam doesn’t notice, except to grimace at his choice of music.

He pulls back out onto the road, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

 **  
Day Five   
**

As they pull into a gas station, Dean hears a grinding in the Impala’s engine, followed by an ominous _clank._

“Son of a bitch!” If he’s gotta fix the car they’ll lose time. Ah, well, it’s not like they’re going anywhere.

There’s a hotel across the street from the gas station. They check in and order pizza, since Dean’s not driving again until he can get a look under the hood.

He finishes eating, and goes outside to see what’s wrong with his baby.

He takes a cursory look at the engine, then a closer look. Everything looks exactly like it should: transmission, carburetor, radiator…

After he’s checked everything twice (ha ha) he gets behind the wheel and turns the key. The engine purrs into life like nothing happened. He cautiously pulls out of the parking lot and cruises around the block. She’s working fine.

Back in the parking lot, he gives his car the hairy eyeball. On the one hand, he’s glad that she’s apparently been fixed. On the other, he’s pissed that someone (or some _thing_ ) has been messing with his baby. Maybe Sam was right.

 **  
Day Six   
**

They’re cruising through Michigan when an ad for a Bon Jovi concert comes on the radio. Dean doesn’t pay it too much attention, until he reaches in his jacket pocket and finds two front-row tickets. He shows them to Sam.

“You wanna go?”

Dean stares at him. “Since when are you OK with whatever’s giving me this stuff?”

Sam shrugs. “Dude, it’s _Bon Jovi._ And you really think there’s gonna be an ambush at a concert?”

Dean shrugs. “OK.”

They go to the concert, and Dean has to admit, it’s awesome. He’s not really a Bon Jovi fan, but it’s awesome to be doing something with Sam again, and to see him actually _smiling._

He’s tense in the beginning, afraid at any moment they’re going to start “Dead or Alive,” but after four songs he relaxes. And the sight of Sam belting out “Living on a Prayer,” totally off-key, is more than enough to make the whole thing worth it.

 **  
Day Seven   
**

When he wakes up on the day after the concert, he finally gets an idea who’s giving him the gifts.

The table is stacked with burgers and beer, on trays just like in the green-room.

But why would Zachariah be giving him presents? Is he trying to soften him up for Michael?

He gets out his cell-phone and calls Cas. He hasn’t seen him for awhile, and he’s almost glad of the excuse to get him back here.

When Cas appears, Dean gestures to the table. “You know what’s up with this?”

Before Cas can answer, Sam mumbles something, breathes in long through his nose and sits up. “Oh. Hey, Cas.”

“Sam.”

“Where’d this come from?” Dean insists, as Sam blinks at the food.

“Obviously it must have come from an angel,” Cas says.

“Well, duh, Einstein! But who? I mean, there’s no reason for Zachariah to do this. And I’ve gotten other stuff too.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Uh…” Dean thinks. “A week, now.”

“If it has been going on that long without anything coming of it, I’d say it’s harmless.”

“Yeah, maybe, but who is it?” Dean never thought much about it before, but now he really wants to know.

Cas shrugs. “I’ll look into it.”

And before Dean can say anything else, demand an explanation, he’s gone.

 **  
Day Eight   
**

It seems like whoever it is knows they’ve been unmasked as an angel, since when they checked into a motel the next day (the usual grubby, one-story roadstop) the room was _not_ what they’d expected.

It doesn’t have mysterious stains on the ceiling, funky smells coming from the mattress, or a carpet that’s some shade between nicotine and urine.

What it does have is a flat-screen TV, plush carpeting and beds that are soft enough to be comfortable and firm enough to support sore muscles.

He and Sam stand gaping for a few seconds, before Dean goes back outside.

It _looks_ like an ordinary motel room, with doors a few feet away on each side. He goes back inside, staring at the sprawling room.

 _Great,_ Dean thinks, _we have a TARDIS for a motel room,_ immediately blaming Sam for the fact that he had such a geeky thought.

“Hey Dean, come in here!” the geek himself calls from the bathroom. “This is awesome!”

Dean follows Sam in, to find a shower like the ones in that house with the bugs. The mirror’s whole and clean, and the tile looks brand new.

He grins. “Dibs on first shower!”

Sam scowls.

 **  
Day Nine   
**

When they stagger back to the motel room after salting and burning a ghost which had thrown Dean into a wall, and dropped Sam over a second story railing, they find the room’s changed.

The beds are still there, but they’re in another room. The main room is dominated by a Jacuzzi big enough to seat twelve people. The jets are on, and the air is full of steam.

“Dude, I take back everything I said about your secret admirer,” Sam says, and starts the painful task of peeling off his clothes.

Dean’s about to retort that it isn’t a secret admirer, but his back twinges and he lets it go.

When he sinks into the warm water, a jet pounding his back, he can’t help his moan. Sam is sitting across from him, head back, eyes closed.

Neither of them get out until they’re practically boiled.

 **  
Day Ten   
**

Sam’s comment nags at Dean that whole day. The thought of having an angelic secret admirer is ridiculous, but then, the thought of _any_ angel giving him gifts is ridiculous. He supposes it could be Anna, but he doesn’t know what happened to her after she got dragged off by Uriel’s goons, and somehow he doubts that she’s in any position to play Christmas fairy.

That thought reminds him that tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. It doesn’t matter much. Dean’s not going to insist they have a Christmas, not like he did a couple of years ago, and Sam hasn’t brought it up either.

That night when he’s taking off his boots, something peeking out from under the bed catches his eye.

He pulls it out. It’s a piece of paper, and another comes out with it.

Closer inspection reveals that they’re not paper, but photographs. Dean stifles a gasp.

They’re both old, black-and-white photos, with rounded corners. The first shows a girl with light hair dutifully studying a huge book, but the rebellious jut of her chin shows how she really feels about it. He recognizes her instantly, even though she’s younger than he’s ever seen her.

He flips it over, and sees _2/10/78_ scrawled on the back.

The other photo shows a young dark-haired boy, standing in front of an old school bus, a backpack slung on his shoulders and a partly forced smile on his face.

The back of this photo reads _Johnny’s first day of school, 8/15/60_

The words blur for a moment, and Dean sets the photos aside.

 **  
Day Eleven   
**

The next morning he gropes on his nightstand for the photos, half afraid they’ll have vanished during the night.

They fall to the floor, and something small and dark flutters along with them.

Curious, Dean picks it up. It’s a black feather, about four inches long. Dean twirls it, wondering where the heck it came from, and the edges flash purple and blue, like a blackbird’s feather.

Suddenly he remembers the day he first met Cas, the shadows of wings cast on the wall of a barn.

Black wings.

And Dean realizes he was stupid, that he should have figured out it was Cas before now. Cas was giving him all those things, all things that were either useful or related to something he loves, and Dean can’t think of anything to give him in return. Angels don’t need possessions.

He wishes he could give Cas his family back, or, failing that, his faith, but that’s probably impossible.

He’s not sure why Cas gave him one of his feathers. It might have been just to identify himself, but Dean doesn’t think so. He has a feeling anything to do with angels’ wings is pretty private.

He sets the feather aside and figures he’ll decide what to do with it later.

The next day, he tucks the feather in the inside pocket of his jacket.

 **  
Day Twelve   
**

The next day is Christmas, and even though Dean looks for something, he can’t find anything.

He stifles his disappointment; after all, he didn’t always find something first thing. But now that he knows where the gifts are coming from, they seem even more significant. Cas doesn’t really get human customs, and the fact that he went to all this effort is oddly touching.

Dean just wishes he’d actually _show up,_ so he could thank him.

He hears a noise outside and picks up his gun and creeps to the window.

He doesn’t see anything, so he opens the door.

Cas is standing there, and Dean feels his face break into a wide smile. “Cas!”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sets his gun aside and goes to join him in the parking lot.

“You accepted my feather,” Cas says solemnly, and Dean’s hand flies to his jacket.

“Yeah.”

“Are you aware of the significance of this?”

Dean swallows. “Not exactly, but I can guess.” He knows what Cas was asking with that feather, figures he knew last night.

Cas nods.

“Look, I wanted to thank you, for…everything,” Dean concludes lamely. “I wish I had something to give you.”

“You did,” Cas replies, locking eyes with him. “You gave me something to believe in.”

And something does _not_ fucking flutter in Dean’s chest at that.

Cas leans forward, and Dean realizes he’s going to kiss him. He should be freaking out, should be running away screaming, but instead he leans forward slightly and meets Cas’ lips with his own.

It’s a soft kiss, like a promise.

When Dean pulls back he feels something soft fall on his face. He looks up to see that it’s snowing, which is weird because he could have sworn there were no clouds when he came out.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean looks back at Cas, with snow in his hair and collecting on his eyelashes, and leans in to kiss them clean. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”


End file.
